


kismet

by diwata



Series: the eleventh hour [5]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, F/M, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-28 06:31:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11412219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diwata/pseuds/diwata
Summary: Her sister pushes the tenth card towards her, a playful smile in the works. “The Lovers, deep love and balance at the cost of great sacrifice.”"What am I s'posed to sacrifice?""A goat, if you wanna be traditional," teases Tina, "or me, if you wanna be cruel."Queenie searches for something.





	kismet

**Author's Note:**

> The final installment of this series. I know it's a bit short compared to the other works, but Queenie was a central part of two other stories, so I didn't envision many more scenes with her. I hope you enjoy!

She’s barely a help around the store nowadays, but she insists on cleaning up at closing. Queenie struts across the bakery with purpose, a hand on her hip for support and the other on her heavy belly. She sees the corner of a piece of paper peeking out from beneath one of the displays and pulls on it. The Lovers, Queenie reads. The card is faded from time and use. “Great sacrifice.” She hears. She knows. “Jacob!” Queenie calls, her heart pounding maddeningly in her chest. He dashes into the room with the baby bag ready before mentally asking her what’s wrong. “I found it,” she says, passing him the card. “This is what was missing.”

Jacob eyes it suspiciously. “A playin’ card?”

“No,” Queenie says, a dazzling smile spreading across her face, “my sister.”

* * *

The blades of grass tickle Queenie’s knees as she strolls across the estate. At the manor, Newt and Tina are preparing dinner, a kind gesture that warrants Jacob’s skepticism. “You sure we can trust ‘em?” he asks. He doesn’t remember as much as Queenie yet, but he does recall that Tina under seasons and over cooks.

“They helped save the world, didn’t they?” replies Queenie hopefully, taking Jacob’s elbow as they walk towards an old willow tree.

“Savin’ the world and savin’ dinner are two completely different ballparks, sweetheart.” He wiggles his eyebrows for emphasis. Queenie laughs at his antics as they approach the scarred trunk. Here, it’s quiet. She can hear a single bird chirping in the distance. “This place, it’s kinda nice, huh?” Jacob thinks of a messy bob of blonde hair running through the open fields. “The twins would love it.”

She blinks at him, owlish. “But the bakery-”

“Hey, I can open a million bakeries,” he says, “but you only got one sister left in this world.”

(“You are true, and brave, and I am so, I am…” Tina is shaking.)

“I love you,” she says, because she does and it is the only proper thing to say. Queenie isn’t even sure that a word as simple as love can convey what she feels for Jacob, the man who left his flourishing business behind on a boat with little more than a suitcase full of pastries, the man who stumbled into her parlor sick, whose seconds thoughts about her were _I’d love a girl who could read minds_ , the man who carried the corpse of his dead brother across a battlefield, the man who helped her conquer her own war, and the man who led her back to her sister. Orange light scatters through the low branches and draping foliage, reflecting off her wedding band. Queenie smiles. “I love you,” she tells him again. And a million times more, she thinks as she leans in for a kiss.

* * *

 Queenie finds her at the table looking deceptively ordinary, wearing one of mama’s old shirts with its tall Victorian collar, and papa’s old slacks that she’d charmed to fit her slim waist. Yet she can hear the thoughts in her sister’s head, the announcement she has to make before she can make it.

“No,” Queenie says, processing the noise in Tina’s head and the sight of the beaten suitcase resting at her ankles.

“I have to,” she says, standing up from the table. The brunette looks her straight in the eye without a look of remorse, but Queenie can hear her thoughts echoing apologies.

She feels very still as she stands across from her sister. Tina’s shadow looms over her as she finally musters up the courage to say: “No, you don’t.” Queenie feels it now, the dam bursting, the fear and the doubt and the worry. She’s shaking, wringing her wrists. “A manhunt for Grindelwald? Teenie,” she says. She pauses. Tina looks at her and thinks about her glassy blue eyes. Tina smiles at her and thinks about the time she’d first left Queenie for Ilvermorny. Tina blinks the wetness out of her eyes and thinks about Graves and Credence. Queenie listens. “Oh, Teenie,” she whispers. “They’re sending you on a suicide mission.”

“I have to,” her older sister repeats sternly. Her foot taps nervously next to the suitcase. Queenie hears the apologies come again, barricading the rest of Tina’s thoughts. “I have to help them, I have to show them I’m…” Tina trails off, but the memory of Tina being demoted surfaces in Queenie’s head. “I can help them, I know I can.”

Queenie grasps her sister’s hands until her knuckles turn white, trying to conceal her frustration and disappointment. “You’re always tryin’ to prove that you’re worth something,” she begins slowly, trying to maneuver the hurt whirling about in her sister’s mind. “You were always trying to be the best.” Queenie takes a deep breath. Sensing the anger and tension building up, Tina lets go of her sister’s hands and places her own on her shoulders. Irritated, Queenie shakes her off. “But all I ever needed was a sister,” she finishes, unable to control her tongue. Her older sister sits down again, collecting her thoughts.

Queenie hears it, a quiet murmur drowning in the mess of Tina’s thoughts, so subtle that she almost doesn’t notice - almost. The fluttering heartbeat calls to Queenie softly, pleading for help. The blonde witch examines her sister carefully, who leans back in response. Her settles her elbow on top of her wooden chair, tilting her chin towards the ceiling. “Don’t read my mind,” she says with a level voice, shoulders sinking, her dark hair almost touching the blades. Queenie almost glares at her nonchalance. “Don’t get in a lather, Queen. You know I can’t stay.”

“It’s all wet!” Queenie cries, blonde curls loosening with her decreasing composure. She tries to listen in on her thoughts and anticipate her next move, but the heartbeat is so loud now that it’s giving her a headache. She closes her eyes and scowls instead, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead to alleviate the pain. When she opens them, Tina’s clutching a mug of cold coffee in her hands, black - unusual.

“Y’know what’s all wet?” Tina asks, the corners of her mouth curling in aggravation. “You asking me to turn my back on people who need my help.” The sound of her setting the mug on the table makes a loud noise that startles Queenie, causing her to flinch in her seat.

Queenie glances at her sister. Tina observes how tired she looks, how worn, how lonely. It isn’t a good look on her, Teenie thinks. “I need your help,” she says. Queenie feels dizzy, now. She leans forward and places a hand on Tina’s knee to steady herself. “I need my sister.”

“I’m sorry,” Tina says, finally vocalizing her innermost thoughts. She lifts the suitcase with her left arm and hugs Queenie with her right. Queenie inhales the scent of fresh lavender and smiles tearfully. Tina rests her chin on the top of her sister’s head. After a while, Tina stands.

Queenie covers her sister’s hand with her own, shaking her head. “Of course you’ll come back,” she states confidently, but feels hollow.

“Soon,” the brunette responds firmly and it sounds like a promise. She leaves Queenie sitting at the kitchen table with a half empty cup of coffee. Queenie takes a sip and grimaces at the bitter taste before throwing the rest into the kitchen sink.

* * *

Jacob’s cough is enough to merit afternoon tea with Tina at a modest hole-in-the-wall restaurant near the Ministry. The British ritual of afternoon tea is an odd, new habit that she’d adopted from her husband. Queenie longs for the time when they knew every miniscule detail of each other’s lives and could have an entire conversation with a few seconds of eye contact. Things now are not so simple. “The air’s cleaner in the country, you all should come out to the house. We can have a nice family reunion,” her older sister suggests. She takes a sip from her black tea, the only mix strong enough for Tina’s liking. It almost reminds her of New York coffee.

Queenie nibbles on her scone. “That’d be swell,” she says, imagining their grandchildren crawling through the tall grass of Dorset.

“Or the beach,” Tina offers, “Newt says it’s nice this time of year.” Queenie hums thoughtfully. “You don’t have to be alone, Queenie.” She looks up and sees her sister’s wrinkled hand reaching out to her. “I’m your sister. I’m here.”

“I’m scared,” Queenie admits, setting her shaking teacup on the table. Its contents spill over and stain the immaculate white table cloth.

“You’re strong,” she retorts with conviction. “I raised you to be strong.”

(Queenie sits next to her sister, the blue of her graduation robes just a shade lighter than the midnight blue of the sky. She wiggles her toes, enjoying the feel of the earth beneath her bare feet. Tina smiles at her adoringly with another girl’s blood on her shirt. They watch the Sun set behind the sloping hills of Ilvermorny, wide and green, like the backs of elephants.)

(“What I’m tryin’ to say is, it’s okay to wait. To take time.” Jacob’s gentle ministrations resume, lulling Queenie. “To heal.”)

Queenie takes Tina’s hand. “You did.”

* * *

The palpable tension in the room makes her skin itch. The pressure and severity of the situation weigh down on her, making her feel unnaturally anxious and frenzied. “What do you mean you don’t have any leads?” she all but yells at Theseus, the Auror in charge of her sister’s case.

“Queenie, please,” Newt reprimands, “restrain yourself, fighting will only make finding Tina more difficult.”

She snaps. She turns to Newt quickly. Queenie’s eyes narrow. “Don’t tell me to calm down, you _Leta-loving drugstore cowboy_ , my sister is missing.” He stares at his feet, avoiding eye contact with her. “My sister has been missing in action for _weeks_ and the only thoughts floatin’ around in that brain of yours are about _Leta Lestrange_?” With an aggressive wave of her wand she tries to hex him, but he ducks just in time for it to miss.

“I miss her too,” Newt retaliates, voice shaking, “she’s my…” He trails off, awkward and uncertain. Queenie sees Leta Lestrange descending a spiraling staircase in emerald robes, silver ornaments adorning her hair. Queenie sees Tina outside the Blind Pig in her flapper dress, a dash of red lipstick and inches of creamy skin. He senses Queenie’s presence in his mind and struggles to shut her out. The men stand uncomfortably in the room as she simmers, emitting a potent energy of indignation.

“You don’t get it, Newt,” Queenie continues, “you don’t know what it’s like to love someone as much as me and Teenie love each other. She’s all I got.” She takes a deep breath. “You don’t know what it’s like to miss her, so don’t even try to make sense of it in that balled up mind of yours. She’s not in your thoughts the way she is in mine. You don’t _hear_ her. I do. And now I can’t and I’m afraid and there’re no leads, and you’re in love with Leta Lestrange.”

There’s a pregnant pause. “We’re trying, you know,” Newt says in a small voice, unconvincing.

Queenie sneers at him on the way out, contemptuous. “Try harder.”

* * *

 Tina’s gentle snores carry into the dimly lit hallway as she shuts the door behind her. They’d been traveling for days and the brunette had quickly discovered her propensity for seasickness, thus making the decision to endure the rest of the trip in a state just short of hibernation. Robe wrapped tightly around her, Queenie walks to the deck. The flowy rose chiffon of her robe rustles gently against her ankles.

She finds Jacob there, smoking in his two-piece suit. The dim light from his cigarette illuminates his face as he takes a long pull. He hasn’t smoked since they buried Ernest. His thoughts reflect his unvocalized foreboding. Queenie stands beside him on the railing quietly, peering over the edge. He takes another pull and breathes the smoke out through his nose. He holds the filter between his index finger and thumb, rolling it between them as he considers visiting an old friend, a sous chef that employed him after the war, in Paris.

“We’ve been here before,” she tells him. Her hands grip the rail as she speaks as his fall to her waist. “Don’t you remember, honey?” His memory comes in flashes: the silver beads of her dress, the animated cat of a magical dime novel, the rain.

He shakes his head helplessly. “I remember a lot of things, doll, but I don’t remember gettin’ on a boat with you.”

“But you remember,” Queenie says sweetly. A breeze sweeps across the deck and she shivers, prompting Jacob to wrap his arms around her tightly.

“You’re one of us now,” he recalls.

The water they tread is dark and cloudy. At night, it looks almost still, save for the ripples the steamer leaves in its wake. They watch the sea as they draw closer to land. The waves are its fingers, weaving together the earth and heavens. They can see the shore, the water kissing its pebbles with blessings and good will. They carry the sea with them, in their blood, with the palpitations of their beating hearts. Jacob looks at her again, crushed cigarette butt beneath his heel, and she sees a depth, like the depth of the ocean, and the creatures that escape her in his profundity. But there is a warmth to Jacob that makes Queenie feel hopeful. That hope travels and extends past the horizon with the sea, as vast and sweeping as their future together.

* * *

Jacob and Queenie are baking kołacz when she notices that something feels wrong. It had been a particularly busy day at the bakery, packed full of tourists coming in for the holiday season. She’d had to sit down in the back room to recover from the consequent migraine. “Something’s wrong, honey,” she informs him, frustrated that she can’t pinpoint exactly what that something is.

“More vanilla?” he proposes, scratching the back of his head.

“No, something’s missing,” Queenie says, equally bemused. Jacob suggests chopped almonds next. “No, not the nuts, I meant something’s missing in _here_.” She gestures to her heart and the locket that sits atop it for emphasis.

“I never said nothin’ about nuts,” Jacob says. He goes to wash his hands and informs Queenie they’re out of soap.

“I gotta run to the store to buy more of it,” she replies.

He gapes at her. “Again?” Queenie looks at him, confused. There’s a flash of something familiar, but it disappears just as quickly as it comes to her. “I never said nothin’ about soap, either.” He pats the tall stool next to the sink. She walks over and takes a seat, looking at him with anticipation. “Let’s try something, okay? I’m gonna think something, and you guess what it is.” She nods.

“Strawberries.”

“Right.”

“The delivery truck.”

“Right.”

“Frank, your war buddy.”

“... well, I always knew you were special hon,” Jacob declares, “but I didn’t know you could read minds.”

Queenie can focus now. She can hear each individual thought running through his mind. The drill gives her a distinct feeling of déjà vu. When she goes home, she reaches into the drawer where she collects trinkets she finds in the store. Queenie picks up a clear glass sphere and turns it over her in hands curiously. A red cloud gathers in its center, a dangerous and angry storm seeking escape.

* * *

At noon, they bring Tina back. She can’t speak and she looks like she’s been starved, her white shirt dirty with sweat and ash, the pink-white tissue of a new scar sparsely concealed. She can’t speak, but Queenie can hear her, and the thoughts are painful, intense and vertiginous, falling on one dark memory to the next in a blurred frenzy. Queenie looks into her mind and smells the stench of death, feels the heat of a burning fire, and feels flesh being sewn together only to be torn apart again and again. Her sister might be resting in the cot beside her, but mentally she’s on the precipice, in the borderland between life and death. In this frontier, there is no Promised Land, only the static between bodies, heat, and absence, reminders - the noise, the friction of a train against broken tracks in constant repair. Often, the tracks speak to Tina: their pools, their oceans, their vermin. They make crevices under iron, bend and wear into soft bed. The crushing weight of Tina’s sorrow expands to fill the tent. It’s suffocating. Queenie leaves.

A day passes, then two, then a week. She can hear Newt’s accusations, biting thoughts that he can’t help and aren’t intended to be malicious, but they hurt anyway. He thinks that she’s hiding, that she’s a coward. Jacob approaches her as she’s getting ready to sleep, dressed-but-undressed in her flimsy nightwear, the white ribbon of the low neckline undone. He ties a loose bow for her and she’s suddenly overtaken by the feeling of guilt. He presses her face into his chest and she lets out a sob.

“That’s right,” Jacob says, tracing soothing patterns into her back, “let it out.”

“Am I bad a sister for not being in that room with her?” Queenie asks, voice muffled.

Jacob scoffs, thinks she could never a bad _anything_ , and she smiles in spite of herself. “No, you know Newt’s takin’ good enough care of her.” He clears his throat. “I’m new to this magic business, but I’m sure bein’ able to read her every thought ain’t helping.” Queenie nods, tears soaking through his shirt. “After I buried my brother, I stayed back in Europe while my boys went home. I didn’t wanna face the city without him, y’know, so I stayed - it made things easier, hanging around kitchens, taking jobs as a waiter or dish cleaner.” His fingers twitch. “What I’m tryin’ to say is, it’s okay to wait. To take time.” His gentle ministrations resume, lulling Queenie. “To heal.”

She inhales deeply. “Thank you,” Queenie says, face still buried in the fabric of his clothing. He helps her into bed, sitting at the foot of hers until she asks him to join her. She sleeps curled into his side, legs wrapped around him protectively. Queenie heals. She dreams of apple orchards and bakeries, dinners with her parents and Teenie, and Jacob. In this safe space, she cannot hear her sister’s screams. There is only smooth jazz and Chopin’s _Butterfly Wings_ , a tune Jacob’s mother used to play for him when he was younger.

* * *

Every Friday, Queenie finds a handsome-sized parcel on her desk just before it’s time to turn in. Tina writes her from Europe as consolation for abandoning her. They’re heavy packages, full of sweets and other trinkets Tina’s bought for her on her journey. There’s no particular theme in her gifts, but she gives them in excess. Queenie takes pity upon the poor owl that has to carry them to her desk at the end of each week from MACUSA’s central postal office. She opens a Chocolate Frog and nearly screams as it jumps out of the box before catching it. She bites into its head, squinting at the inscription on the card. _Newton Artemis Fido Scamander_ , reads the inscription, _author of_ Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. The redhead in the frame is mortified, pointedly looking at his cuticles, which he decides are far more interesting than the camera that was likely taking the shot.

Today, Tina’s package contains a strange crystal orb with a simple gold lining. _It’s called a Remembrall_ , she writes, _in case you’ve forgotten about me_. Queenie can hear the wry, mocking tone to her sister’s words. She reads the other ten pages of the letter detailing the scenery of the Scottish landscape, its rolling hills and paths that lead to enchanted castles. _It’s beautiful_ , Tina writes, _but not as lovely as Ilvermorny_. She giggles at this, resting her palm on the flat surface of her desk. The last page is blank, save for a single line, written sloppily, as if Tina is in a rush to relay the news to her: _I’m coming home_.

* * *

For all her shortcomings at Ilvermorny, Queenie’s gift for Divination is prodigious and widely known. She’s taken out of introductory instruction for second year students and placed with the fifth years. Though her advancement is meant to be rewarding, Queenie merely feels all the more out of place in the room full of older students. Tina waits for her outside of class one day, panicking, and asks Queenie to tutor her for her final on Cartomancy. It’s the only thing standing between Tina and graduating, and one of the two things standing between Tina and becoming a Junior Auror at MACUSA. _Maggie_ , thinks Tina regretfully as they take dinner in the mess hall. Queenie hands her a piece of chocolate cake.

They ascend the stairs to the Thunderbird common room, Tina unwilling to engage in a conversation with the resident Pukwudgie that guards Queenie’s sleeping quarters. “He’s insufferable,” she says, clicking her tongue.

Queenie grins. “He’s an OK guy, Teen.” Her sister lets out angry air through her nostrils. Queenie almost loses her footing and falls into the growing abyss. “Ugh, why’s Thunderbird so _far_ from the rest of us?” Tina’s common room is in the highest tower, and the trek, besides being incredibly long, is also potentially dangerous.

“Wanna piggyback?” Tina says smugly, stopping in front of her and holding her arms out backwards. By the time they scale the tall wall that leads to the Thunderbird statue, Queenie’s exhausted.

“You _adventurers_.” Queenie glares at her sister’s victorious smirk. Tina lets out a bird call and the wings of the statue move, granting them entry. Her older sister begins laying out the tarot cards in her bag on the floor. “Um, Teen, you forgot something,” Queenie corrects.

A look of pure terror reaches Tina’s face. “Merlin, already? I’m going to fail, aren’t I?” A light goes off in her brain and she uses an _Accio_ charm to retrieve a raw amethyst crystal. She gathers the cards and places it on the top of the deck. “Alright,” she says. Tina flicks her wand the deck shuffles seven times. She looks at Queenie, clueless.

“Celtic Cross is the standard,” she advises, tying her long blonde hair back into a high ponytail. The cards float into the proper formation. “Do a reading for yourself, I’ll help.” She walks Tina through the significance of each placement, calling upon her to analyze the cards. “Look, Teen, the Six of Wands!” Queenie exclaims. “For your immediate future - good news! You might pass, after all!”

Tina snorts. Her gaze is fixated on the tenth card, her second future. “Strength.” A woman sits with a lion peacefully with flowers on her lap. She possesses an inner power, total control over all earthly situations. “Self-love,” interprets Tina, “confidence.” Tina feels embarrassed saying it out loud, but Queenie smiles reassuringly.

“My turn,” she says, and Tina returns the amethyst to its original position and begins another spread.

Tina gives a thorough reading with new courage. The positivity in her mind soothes Queenie. Her sister pushes the tenth card towards her, a playful smile in the works. “The Lovers, deep love and balance at the cost of great sacrifice.” A man and woman face one another, naked, the sign of ultimate trust and honesty. An angel appears, cloaking the sun, giving the two his blessing. The tree of knowledge stands tall behind the man. The woman presents herself in front of a fruiting tree, the tree of life. Golden curls adorn her neck.

"What am I s'posed to sacrifice?"

"A goat, if you wanna be traditional," teases Tina, "or me, if you wanna be cruel."

Queenie rolls her eyes. She handles the raw amethyst, curiously tracing over its crooked edges. "Well, guess I gotta sacrifice you, Teen." A beat. "Where exactly am I s'posed to find a  _goat_?"

* * *

The briny smell of ocean water wafts towards them as they near the beach. Queenie steps forward first, tugging on Jacob’s hand as she navigates the crooked boardwalk barefoot. In his other hand, he carries their lunch in a leather-handled picnic basket. The wind raises her long skirt, revealing varicose veins. Annoyed by the heat, Jacob ponders why they couldn’t simply Apparate to the shore. Queenie squeezes his hand and his annoyance wanes.

“We’re close!” she encourages, sunlight bouncing off her golden-silver curls. They continue for ten minutes before Queenie lays out the woven quilt with her wand. He plops down immediately, giving an exaggerated sigh of relief.

They sit in silence for awhile, legs folded beneath them as they bite into their halves of a shared sandwich. “Honey,” she says patiently, wiping the crumbs from his mustache, “you’re thinkin’ in Polish again.” It’s something he seldom did when they first started dating, but old age has got him thinking in his mother tongue.

He smiles apologetically. “Ah, why’d you ever choose a guy like me?”

“You make a good sandwich,” Queenie answers before finishing her last bite. She leans over to peck him on the cheek. “I had no choice, really.” She gazes at Jacob and sees the tall branches of a tree behind him. He still has a sorry smile on his face, pants rolled up to his knees, and shirt unbuttoned to expose bare skin. “What chance did I stand against kismet?” Jacob pulls her toward him, wrapping a careful arm around her. Queenie rests her head on his shoulder as the sea dances with the shore, retreats, and returns, like two clandestine lovers.


End file.
